Current location:	The Homestead
Current mood:	mischievous
Current music:	"Weird Tales" by Electric Wizard
Entry tags:	bacardi, diet coke, drinking, give, live, love, shot glasses

Give, Live, Love . . .

Or, just fuck all y'all . . .  twice!

Today. What a day. We were supposed to have a follow-up interview with a woman who runs a management consulting firm in Austin who wrote a semi-famous book about management theory who was chatting with us for an upcoming issue of a journal we publish. There was to be a recorded interview to then be transcribed and edited. There was an official dinner to take her out to. There was a hotel to check her in at on the school's dime so she didn't have to drive back down Damnation Alley at night to get back home. I mean, these are preparations, bub. And then . . . then . . . then, one by one, the major players began to drop out. I mean, what the hell? I was already the smallest fish in the room. Then, finally, it was going to be just me and a proxy for the other guys--a proxy that I had to find--to meet with her. No shit, all last night I had nightmares about this poor woman showing up and discovering she was only going to be talking to me. I mean, really, I'm not kidding: nightmares.  I felt horrible about it. So this morning I was going to email her to let her know the hap so she could make a graceful exit out of the whole thing. I got to work--late, of course--and got went down to another office to fill up our coffee pot with water to make coffee and talk to a buddy of mine down there and the DS (Departmental Secretary) comes down there to say the lady is on the phone because she can't make it today. She has a congenital birth defect: no hip sockets. As a child she had some kind of reconstructive surgery. Now her legs fuck up on her every couple of years. Like now. She can't walk. She can't drive. She's distraught that she can't make it down. I just don't know what to say. What am I to think? Is there a God? My feet do a sharp little happy dance. Is he/she this benevolent a God? I tell her that job one is taking care of herself. I send her an email saying we'll reschedule after the first of the year. We are, I tell her, nothing to sweat over at all. But, I suggest, why don't we meet in Austin this time? That will be simpler. Oh yeah. All hail Jehovah. Or, truthfully, fuck it. With happenstance like this I'm happy to say, "All hail Beelzebubba." Like the Diet Coke bottle says:

Give. Live. Fuck Off.

(or something.)